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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29859060">The One With that Scene from "Raiders"</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderglass/pseuds/spiderglass'>spiderglass</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Sam Winchester Finds Out, Sam Winchester Knows, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester is So Done</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:29:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,551</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29859060</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderglass/pseuds/spiderglass</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam briefly considers trying out something even more syrupy and cloying, like <i>It feels like we’re drifting apart</i> or <i>I don’t even know what’s going on in your life, Dean,</i> but he knows he’ll just get called “Samantha” for his trouble, and it might possibly even make Dean clam up even more. </p><p>Not that Dean is, in actuality, clamming up right now. He’s acting as though he has absolutely zero to hide. For an instant it almost makes Sam question this whole thing: Was he wrong? </p><p>OR,</p><p>Sam can never watch <i>Raiders of the Lost Ark</i> again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>132</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The One With that Scene from "Raiders"</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A few bits of this are very loosely based on the <i>Friends</i> episode 5x12, but it’s not necessary to have seen it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>THURSDAY, EARLIER</p><p> </p><p>Dean had just headed down to do the laundry: everyone’s laundry, all at once, which was going to dearly tax the Men of Letters’ 1950s-era washers and dryers, because Dean had fallen into a rather cute little routine involving chores around the place.</p><p>Then again, it made a strange kind of sense. Dean had always been the one who cooked, the one who sort of cleaned, the one who picked up Sam’s gum wrappers or dirty socks in disgust when they’d been left on the floor instead of put into their respective trash can or hamper. Sam was perpetually the little brother in that respect, and even though Sam was generally the brother voted most likely to put down roots and live a normal life in a normal house someday, Dean had such<em> domestic</em> inclinations towards the bunker, had practically taken to throwing down all kinds of roots here.</p><p>And Sam, now alone in the library, had decided to work more on their ongoing case: a series of bizarre murders where the victims’ various organs had been removed but had not, unlike past cases involving monsters they could actually identify, been stolen.</p><p>Noting that Dean had left his phone on the table after scrolling through his newest photos of the mangled dead body, Sam decided to take a fresh look himself, see if there were any clues he’d missed. He picked it up, tapped the screen, and was gratified when the phone instantly woke up, evidently not having had enough time to lock yet. And there was the bloody picture, already on the screen.</p><p>Studying it carefully, Sam kept trying to guess why this particular victim had their heart 1) removed but then 2) just <em>left</em> there on the grass. He swiped his thumb left to see the next few, a closer shot of the heart, a few other angles of the corpse.</p><p>Sam swiped yet again, but there were no more pictures of the corpse to study—instead it was a photo taken in this very room, orange lamps glowing unmistakably in the background. Sam chuckled. It was obviously some very bad selfie attempt of Castiel’s, since part of his face—mostly wide blue eyes looking upwards and a mess of unruly dark hair—was visible in the lower right-hand corner. In the background, a few seats away at the table, sat Dean, leaning over some papers pertaining to the case, wearing a serious expression as he read over them—not to mention wearing the same clothes from earlier that day. His typical layers: heavy red shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, flannel shirt underneath, dark t-shirt. The shot had obviously been taken today.</p><p>Thoughtlessly, Sam swiped to the next picture, where everything was mostly the same, except the angel’s face was even <em>less</em> in the frame, and Dean was looking up from the table, straight at the camera, a guileless expression on his face.</p><p>In the <em>next</em> picture, Dean was caught mid eye-roll, having realized what Cas was doing. Swipe. The next pic was blurry, snapped in motion as Cas either hurriedly lowered the phone or Dean had gotten up to grab it away. The only things visible were the lamps, blurred into long orange streaks, and the large vertical smear of the table as it too was stretched across the frame.</p><p>Continuing to be amused by this saga, Sam swiped to the next shot. Surprisingly, it was posed, a close-up with Dean standing on the left, arms folded, tolerating this with mostly impassive eyes but a very small smile on his face—Cas closer to the camera and clearly still holding the phone, but actually in the frame this time, a proper selfie of the two of them. Sam found himself smiling at the way Dean had unexpectedly played along with that. He wouldn’t mind ribbing Dean a bit for that later over how sweet it is, even though he wasn’t actually supposed to be looking at these photos. The look on Dean’s face would totally be worth it.</p><p>Swipe. Same shot, except the two of them were turned slightly in towards each other—Dean chuckling at something one of them must have said, the smile reaching his eyes this time, his whole body angled towards Castiel, while Cas’ head was turned towards Dean, an open look on his face, a soft smile almost uncharacteristic of him.</p><p>Swipe. Another blurry shot of the same thing, the two of them smeared across the screen in a mess of colors. Swipe. An even <em>closer</em> close-up, only their faces in the frame now, still turned towards each other but eyes closed and meeting in the middle of the screen in a kiss—</p><p>Sam dropped the phone as if it had burned him.</p><p>Holy shit.</p><p>Holy <em>shit.</em></p><p>Shocked at both what he had seen, and the knowledge that he had intruded on something so unbelievably personal and private that Dean would be horrified, mortified, would kill Sam, would never trust him again…</p><p>Sam hastily grabbed the phone up again from where it had clunked down onto the table, enough presence of mind to realize he had to get that photo off the screen or his brother would know someone <em>(Sam)</em> had been looking at it. His hands were unsteady, not cooperating as he rushed and fumbled.</p><p>Oh my <em>god</em>.</p><p>It wasn’t like Sam was completely oblivious, he’d had a decade to notice that there was some kind of ongoing tension between the two of them, but he had attributed most of that to Cas… Figuring it to be some complicated, eternally unresolved thing that Dean would never be able to acknowledge or understand.</p><p>Once he swiped the photo album off the screen, another box popped up behind it. Dean’s text messages. Great. Dean had apparently been texting just before bringing up the corpse picture.</p><p>Sam didn’t mean to read what was on the screen. He really, genuinely didn’t.</p><p>But he’s a fast reader, has been ever since he had to hone his skimming skills when reading about a million books a week in college. And so he inadvertently absorbed all the words displayed on the phone just from one glance at the screen.</p><p>
  <em>Dean: it’s ok. i’ll just tell sam i have to go do laundry</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dean: heh. maybe laundry should be your new nickname</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cas: I don’t understand. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cas: That sounds like a very unflattering nickname.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dean: ffs</em>
</p><p>Sam left the phone on the table and didn’t look back.</p><p>He headed for the door, and god, he <em>couldn’t </em>look back. If Sam knowingly went back and peered into any more private moments on that phone, his face would probably melt right off like that one scene in <em>Raiders</em>, and worse, he would<em> deserve</em> it.</p><p>He just—compared Dean’s cellphone to the Ark of the Covenant. What was even happening to their lives?</p><p>It was just— Dean was so uptight about needing to be seen as some stereotypical beacon of womanizing, toxic masculinity, and while Sam knew that wasn’t who Dean really was at his core, he hadn’t given Dean enough credit, either. Hadn’t believed his brother would have the self-awareness, and self-love, and self-acceptance to get past his lifelong hang-ups so thoroughly.</p><p>It was amazing, it was uncharacteristic, a spark of hope that good things do actually happen in Dean Winchester’s life—but Sam couldn’t really hold all of that in his mind right now, not while he rushed from the room to avoid getting caught red-handed, like the perpetual snooping little brother he still appeared to be.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>THURSDAY, NOW</p><p> </p><p>The scent of pizza permeates the room, Sam notices when he walks in.</p><p>Dean is sitting at the table in his hot dog pajama pants and dead-guy robe, apparently ready for bed, eating, and reading some dry news reports on his laptop about their case. Next to him sits a plate of something that appears to be Bagel Bites. Pizza-flavored.</p><p>Sam tries to sound casual, but fails, since he was probably doomed from the start. “Hey man, do you uh…have anything you wanna tell me?”</p><p>Dean’s answer, immediate, without looking up: “No.” He shoves another bite of microwaved pizza bagel in his mouth. It crunches loudly between his teeth; Dean always leaves them in the microwave too long.</p><p>“Are you sure? It’s okay if you do. I mean, it feels like we haven’t really…talked lately.”</p><p>Dean looks up with an expression of confusion that Sam recognizes as genuine. “What?”</p><p>“I just mean…what’s up?” Trying to sound light and conversational now. It’s bad, and it’s phony, and Sam would physically cringe at himself if that wouldn’t make this seem even more suspicious.</p><p>“Nothing, Sam.” A small frown knits Dean’s brow and it, too, is genuine. He has no idea what Sam is trying to do here. “What are you talkin’ about? Do you have something you wanna tell <em>me?</em>”</p><p>It’s not a bad guess on Dean’s part, Sam hasn’t been above doing something like this in the past as an excuse to broach some sensitive subjects himself, but in this case it’s totally wrong. “No,” Sam sighs. Defeated.</p><p>He briefly considers trying out something even more syrupy and cloying, like <em>It feels like we’re drifting apart </em>or <em>I don’t even know what’s going on in your life, Dean </em>but he knows he’ll just get called “Samantha” for his trouble, and it might possibly even make Dean clam up even more.</p><p>Not that Dean is, in actuality, clamming up right now. He’s acting as though he has absolutely zero to hide. For an instant it almost makes Sam question this whole thing: Was he wrong?</p><p>But no, he didn’t just<em> imagine</em> the photo, and it wasn’t a joke. They wouldn’t ever have done that as a joke.</p><p>When Sam says nothing more, just staring blankly at his brother, Dean shrugs and stuffs another Bagel Bite, whole, into his mouth, before turning back to the computer.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Later in the evening, Sam passes Cas in the hallway leading to the library and catches himself staring at the angel for a bit too long. Staring even more carefully than he had stared at the photo of the dead body, as if he’s trying to study Castiel for clues.</p><p>Cas starts to look uncomfortable, which is truly saying something considering that Castiel is the undisputed, reigning king of awkwardly long stares.</p><p>Sam snaps himself out of it and gives Cas a reassuring smile, deciding unequivocally that he is not going to bother the angel about this.</p><p>“Hey, Cas,” he begins, nonchalant. “…What’s up?” Again, he wants to internally cringe; why did he <em>say</em> that? He doesn’t even <em>want</em> Cas to answer.</p><p>Castiel tilts his head at Sam, finding the word choice strange, but still seems sufficiently reassured by Sam’s warm smile.</p><p>“There’s. A book I need.” Something about the cadence—and that pause, even more inappropriately timed than his usual pauses—makes it obvious that Cas is lying. “I’m going to get that book.”</p><p><em>Gross. So Dean’s nickname is “book” now? </em>Sam thinks to himself, wryly, before chastising himself for thinking about it at all.</p><p>For a moment Sam doesn’t speak, and the pregnant pause is even worse than Cas’ had been. “Go get that book, Cas,” Sam finally says, as if the angel is about to go avert the apocalypse or something and Sam is cheering him on.</p><p>Castiel squints at him, but seems to accept it, and Sam lets out a breath as they each continue down the hall in their separate directions.</p><p>No, he’s not going to press or even question Cas about this. Not ever. That’s just not the right way for this to go down. If Sam ever ends up hearing about this “officially,” he needs to hear it from Dean.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Later that night, padding down another quiet hallway, Sam wonders how long this has been going on. If it’s been long enough that he should feel even dumber than he already does. It’s certainly been long enough for Dean to get comfortable with the idea of taking a picture….</p><p>Anyway, there were a few crates of odds and ends that Sam had found in one of the endless Men of Letters storage rooms and dragged out into the hallway the day before. He’d intended on coming back later to take them to his room for further investigation, which is exactly what Sam’s on his way to do now.</p><p>Striding purposefully down the hallway, he passes Dean’s empty room—of course it’s empty, because Dean said he was doing laundry again, which was weird since Sam could’ve sworn Dean did every load of laundry earlier in the day, except he wasn’t actually doing laundry, was he, he was doing—</p><p><em>No</em>. He can’t think about that. <em>Raiders</em>, Sam reminds himself a bit nonsensically, that <em>Raiders</em> scene. It’s none of his business, not unless Dean wants it to be. Don’t look back. Don’t think about it. Melting face. Burning eyes. The whole nine.</p><p>Sam is almost there, to the spot where he left the Men of Letters’ equivalent of a magical artifact junk drawer, when he hears voices coming from Cas’ room.</p><p>And he doesn’t mean to listen. He really doesn’t. It’s just that he hears his own <em>name</em> being spoken, and he automatically pauses mid-step, almost directly in front of Cas’s door.</p><p>“I don’t<em> enjoy</em> lying to your brother, Dean.” Cas’ tired voice.</p><p>“Sammy’s a big boy. He can handle it.” All that practiced bravado, barely muffled by the door.</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>.”</p><p>“Look, I just—it’s not a big deal, okay?? Can we not do this now?” Dean says, voice going suddenly up in pitch and speed, indicating that for Dean, this is in fact a really, really big deal.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“It’s alright, Dean. I know you’re not ready.” Cas sounds so nauseatingly understanding and gentle that Sam is <em>convinced</em> Dean is about to come back with something even more sarcastic and rude, probably involving a few colorful metaphors and pop culture references to cover up any visible vulnerability on his part.</p><p>But, surprisingly, as he continues staring at the closed door, Sam hears nothing.</p><p>Dean isn’t arguing with Cas.</p><p>He’s just taking the comfort and support.</p><p>That says volumes about what this whole thing means to Dean, and Sam abruptly feels guilty for even trying to get his brother to crack earlier—guilty <em>on top of</em> eavesdropping right now, so he quickly carries on down the hall a few feet, where his crates of relics are waiting, thinking to himself just how strange and wonderful the world is, that once upon a time his older brother had been rescued from Hell by an angel and now all these years later—</p><p>There’s a <em>crash </em>as Sam, daydreaming to himself, walks right into the stack of crates, sending the top one toppling down onto the stone floor— With the next one falling right after it, which then opens on its way down, a half dozen probably priceless artifacts spilling out and tumbling over themselves on their way to the floor, making a truly<em> horrendous</em> noise, and it looks like some tiny vial with dark powder in it might have actually <em>exploded</em>, Sam half-tripping and catching himself before he can faceplant onto the floor too—</p><p>And <em>bam, </em>suddenly Dean’s in the hallway with an alarmed expression on his face and his gun out, because of<em> course</em> he is. Dean has reflexes like a cat when he thinks he’s in danger. A really bitchy cat. Especially when said danger has interrupted him, startled him out of a state of total relaxation and safety, and his first reaction is always to point his gun wildly at everything nearby.</p><p>Dean’s also in just a t-shirt and boxers, because fuck Sam’s life.</p><p>Dean’s eyes widen as he takes in Sam, doubled over in the middle of the big fucking mess of tarnished goblets and old bones littering the hallway. Gun still aimed straight at Sam’s head, because the dawning horror in Dean’s eyes means that he’s forgotten all about the gun already.</p><p>“Wow, uh—Sam.” Rather than looking reassured that the noise was just his little brother being equally a klutz and total moron, Dean looks completely fucking terrified. It’s more fear than Sam can remember seeing on his face for a good while now.</p><p>Under normal circumstances, Sam might even enjoy the humor in startling Dean over something so harmless. But right now, it’s<em> so</em> not worth it.</p><p>“Dean! Sorry, I was just coming back to collect the Men of Letters artifacts, but I guess I—dropped them.” He looks down at the mess as he awkwardly states the obvious. “But it’s fine, it’s probably all junk anyway,” he adds, going for casual for the fiftieth time today—but this time, he actually seems to succeed.</p><p>Maybe it’s just because his older brother still looks kind of like he expects Sam to wheel around and stab him or something, and it’s easy to seem all casual and calm compared to<em> that</em>.</p><p>“Oh. Sure.” Dean has lowered the gun, safety on, and moves to stick it in his back pocket, realizes he doesn’t have one, and just tucks it into the waistband of his boxer shorts instead. His expression has gone wooden, but still pale. “Uh, look, what I was doing in Cas’ room, was—”</p><p><em>Oh god, Dean, please, don’t say anything else</em>, Sam thinks fervently, thanking his lucky stars that Dean at least remembered to almost fully close the door behind him as he leapt out into the hallway with his gun drawn.</p><p>“He took my records,” Dean finishes, in a rush, obviously at the exact second the lie occurs to him. “I had to go get ’em back. Both Led Zeppelin <em>and</em> Led Zeppelin II. Can you believe it? Thought I wouldn’t notice, or somethin’,” he babbles, trying so hard to look like he doesn’t care, that it almost, kind of, makes Sam want to cry.</p><p>“Okay,” he says. “Cool. Well, I’m just gonna go study this stuff, man, and take inventory, so I’ll see you later.” Sam’s pretty proud of how he just sounded, how he actually <em>does</em> sound like he doesn’t care, like everything’s <em>cool</em>. He leans down to carelessly shove the pile of trinkets into the moldy open box, powder staining his fingertips, stacking everything back up in record time before hoisting it into his arms.</p><p>From inside the room, there’s the muted sound of box springs moving as something shifts on a bed. Probably Cas wondering what the fuck is going on out here. They really need to get the angel a memory foam mattress like Dean’s— Jesus, <em>don’t</em> think about either of their beds, that’s trauma-inducing material.</p><p>Just think about <em>Raiders of the Lost Ark</em>. And the comparison seems kind of apt, really, since the scene in the movie was all about not looking straight at something divine, and half of Sam’s current problem here is a literal angel—and god only knows what would happen if you looked upon a celestial being when they’re doing something like—</p><p>Dude<em>, no.</em></p><p>Sam takes a step, then can’t resist casting one more quick, meaningful glance back at his brother, feeling touched by this whole disgusting situation. “I really hope you find your records, man,” he says, almost blowing the whole calm-and-collected thing with the inappropriate amount of feeling he manages to inject into the words.</p><p>Dean looks at him like he’s grown an extra head, which is pretty much how Dean looks at him half the time anyway, because Sam is a person who enjoys doing inventory for <em>fun</em>. So he scurries by—walking as fast as he can while toting the tower of old boxes that is now clutched to his chest, deliberately not looking anywhere near the small crack in the door and pretending that he thinks Dean was alone in there the whole time. The <em>whole time.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>FRIDAY MORNING</p><p> </p><p>It’s something he rarely does, but Sam lets himself sleep in rather than popping out of bed to go for a run, or immediately get to work on their case, both things that<em> also</em> cause Dean to look at him like he’s grown an extra head.</p><p>Sam just doesn’t really want to face anyone today. It’s that whole…<em>Raiders </em>thing, he repeats to himself, hiding under his pillow. Don’t look. Don’t pry. Have respect. Use brain bleach.</p><p>Damn it. Now that he thinks about it, the word “bleach” reminds him too much of <em>laundry</em>. And he’s already started to ruin the <em>Raiders</em> scene for himself, too, by associating it with this; he’ll have to think of another euphemism to use, a code word in his head for the thing he has to pretend not to know about Dean and his “best buddy.”</p><p>But, eventually, his restlessness and rumbling stomach help persuade him out of bed, so after meticulously combing his hair, Sam wanders out to the kitchen to find Dean cooking—and in a stunningly good mood.</p><p>“Hey, Sunshine,” Dean beams, looking up from the stove, seeming to have completely forgotten about the hallway awkwardness last night. “Check this out.” He proudly brandishes a red bottle. “The store had <em>sriracha</em>. And you know what? I’m gonna put it in the scrambled eggs.”</p><p>That sounds like a disgusting idea, but Sam just nods, wanders a little closer, taking in the sight of Dean grinning and cooking breakfast in his hot dog pajama pants—and the same plain t-shirt as last night. Again, Sam feels like he’s just had a peek at something really private, but since that makes no sense in this context—his brother is just scrambling fucking eggs right now, how innocent can you get—he shakes it off.</p><p>He stops just behind Dean’s shoulder, watching as his older brother pushes bacon around in a pan, before Sam catches movement in the corner of his eye. He turns his head and sees Cas wandering in rather sleepily, wearing Dean’s dead-guy robe.</p><p>He’d thought Dean was just about as relaxed as he could <em>get</em> right now, but when Dean notices the angel, even more tension leaves the slope of his shoulders.</p><p>The moment suddenly feels like it’s, well, <em>momentous</em>, filled with so<em> much</em>. Sam turns back to his brother, eyes shining, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m really happy for you, man,” he says, with feeling.</p><p>Dean frowns back over his shoulder to meet Sam’s insistent eye contact, looking annoyed at this emotional non sequitur. “Get a grip, dude. It’s not world fuckin’ <em>peace</em>, it’s just<em> sriracha</em>.”</p><p>Unfazed, Sam looks over at where Cas is now sitting at the table, and smiles at him. Cas just smiles almost <em>beatifically</em> back, chin in hand, but also like he’s barely even seeing Sam, looking more like one of those Renaissance paintings of angels than he ever has for as long as Sam has known him. Which is a little surreal, since the angel in question currently appears to be wearing a Metallica t-shirt underneath Dean’s robe.</p><p>Sam makes his way over to the table and sits down opposite Cas. And he’s not going to do anything else to bother them, he promises, he’ll give Dean all the time he needs—</p><p>But Sam can’t resist taking one last glance back at his brother, asking casually, “So, you gonna do any more laundry today?”</p><p>And Dean still doesn’t suspect, doesn’t know that he knows, and Sam’s still so happy for him—but the look on Dean’s face when he startles, making a choking noise and dropping a piece of bacon on the floor, is worth it.</p><p>Dean glares over his shoulder again at Sam. “That one’s yours,” he says icily, pointing at the bacon on the floor, as punishment for Sam disturbing him while he’s cooking.</p><p>“Fine by me. I don’t eat meat,” Sam reminds him with a grin.</p><p>And, yet again, the look on Dean’s face, and even the way Dean lobs the spatula at his head, with Cas looking on like Dean personally hung the moon for him, is all so <em>totally</em> worth it. Clearly, no one remembers they're supposed to be working a case right now.</p><p>“So <em>anyway</em>.” Dean is gradually losing the pissy tone. “It’s Friday. Winchester movie night.”</p><p>Sam frowns. “Since when?”</p><p>“Since forever, where the fuck’ve you been?” Dean shakes his head and grabs some plates. “I was gonna give you first pick of the movie, too, but since you’ve decided to be such a little bitch this morning….” Dean’s tone has evolved into something bordering on fondness, despite his words. “I’ll pick one myself. I’m thinking—some adventure flick. <em>Tombstone</em>?”</p><p>From across the table, Cas makes a fed-up noise.</p><p>“Okay, fine, so maybe we’ve watched that one a lot recently.” Dean holds up his hands in surrender, a serving spoon still gripped in one of them, and Sam chuckles to himself, because his brother is <em>so</em> whipped. “How ’bout—<em>Indiana Jones</em>?”</p><p>Sam feels the blood drain from his face.</p><p>“Which one you feelin’, <em>Raiders</em>?”</p><p>“No,” Sam chokes out. “Dean, no. Please.”</p><p>“Really? I thought that one was your favorite Indy movie,” Dean questions innocently, genuinely no idea why Sam is so distressed.</p><p>“Just not in the mood,” Sam says quickly, before he loses his appetite for breakfast completely. “Actually, you know what, why don’t you guys just do it—” Ugh, bad choice of words. “Do the <em>movie</em>,” he amends, “and I’ll sit this one out. I really didn’t sleep too well, so I’m thinking of turning in early tonight.”</p><p>“You sure?” Dean’s eyebrows have gone up, and maybe he’s actually a little disappointed by Sam bowing out of his family movie night thing.</p><p>But Sam supposes it’ll give the pair of them more alone time, anyway, without having to sneak around behind Sam’s back. And when he imagines trying to watch any movie with them, he gets this vivid mental picture of Dean not-so-subtly stretching an arm behind the ugly green couch in an awkward teenage-boy move to surreptitiously put his arm around Cas—and just <em>no</em>.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m sure. You guys have fun, though.” Sam offers a smile. “Really.”</p><p>“Okay, I’ll let you wimp out and catch your early-bird dinner before you go to bed at 8:30, grandpa,” Dean grouches, without heat, the insults rolling off his tongue so fast he’s probably not even giving them any thought. “And I’ll be sure to get the hell off your lawn, too. Oh hey, why don’t you tell me about how you used to walk fifty miles every day uphill backwards in the snow?”</p><p>Rolling his eyes, Sam hopes, for Cas’ sake, that the patience of an actual saint is included somewhere in his innate angelic programming.</p><p>Across the table, Cas still appears to be oblivious to every word that passes between the two brothers, giving Dean heart-eyes. And Sam realizes, smiling a little wider, that Cas has, actually, always looked like that.</p><p>Sam’s just finally seeing it for what it is.</p><p>And, Sam has to admit, while his main motivation for looking away is a combination of acute secondhand embarrassment and a desire not to puke—it really is kinda beautiful, too.</p><p>Even if he can never, for as long as he lives, watch <em>Raiders of the Lost Ark </em>again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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